Summary

Mara A. Leichtman offers an in-depth study of Shi‘i Islam in two very different communities in Senegal: the well-established Lebanese diaspora and Senegalese "converts" from Sunni to Shi‘i Islam of recent decades. Sharing a minority religious status in a predominantly Sunni Muslim country, each group is cosmopolitan in its own way. Leichtman provides new insights into the everyday lives of Shi‘i Muslims in Africa and the dynamics of local and global Islam. She explores the influence of Hizbullah and Islamic reformist movements, and offers a corrective to prevailing views of Sunni-Shi‘i hostility, demonstrating that religious coexistence is possible in a context such as Senegal.

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Preface

Islam and Politics

AFRICA IS INCREASINGLY playing a role in U.S. foreign policy and the Western fight against terrorism. The 1998 bombings of U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania, 2008 coup in Mauritania (where attacks against European tourists led to the canceling of the Paris-to-Dakar rally), 2012 coups in Mali and Guinea Bissau, piracy off the coast of Somalia, Invisible Children’s viral Kony 2012 video campaign, and growing visibility of Nigeria’s Boko Haram movement brought Africa into America’s immediate agenda. Journalists and diplomats focus on al-Qaʾida’s role in Africa, seeing extremists or terrorists everywhere, yet sometimes lacking concrete proof of their activities.

Douglas Farah, a former Washington Post correspondent who described himself as covering largely poor and obscure West African countries (2004:9), published a book entitled Blood from Stones: The Secret Financial Network of Terror. The back cover reads, in an exaggerated manner: After 9/11, at a great risk to his own life, Farah hung out with drugged out killers and arms traffickers in West Africa to trace the links between the underground diamond trade and international terrorism. What surprised me was not his accusation that Lebanese Shiʿa were using Liberian blood diamonds to finance Hizbullah, but his use, interchangeably, of Hizbullah and al-Qaʾida, linking these two organizations in the same sentences as if they were one and the same. In 2011, the New York Times ran a series of articles vaguely outlining similarly unproven accusations.¹ Does this connection really exist?

Knowledge is often produced through less-than-objective media coverage, and for many in the West, Africa is a land of poverty, starvation, war, and fundamentalism. French celebrity journalist Pierre Péan wrote his own sensationalist account entitled Manipulations Africaines (2001), linking the 1989 Libyan bombing of UTA flight 772 to Hizbullah’s 1987 taking of French hostages (freed by Senegal’s Shaykh al-Zayn). Both Péan and Farah claim to uncover networks of Arab terrorists on the African continent, blaming Africa’s chaos for allowing such men to run loose and conduct illicit, unmonitored activities. Farah’s reporting in particular was widely quoted and formed the basis for U.S. military and policy reports on Lebanese involvement in conflict diamonds, concluding with the need for those prosecuting the Global War on Terrorism to carefully monitor West Africa (Laremont and Gregorian 2006:34; see also Gberie 2002; Levitt 2004; Middle East Intelligence Bulletin 2004). Laremont and Gregorian go so far as to state (citing Farah) that emerging research suggests that Al-Qaeda, Hizbullah, and AMAL have occasionally merged their terrorist-financing initiatives (2006:30), although they admit difficulty in determining whether al-Qaʾida continues to engage in illicit diamond trading in West Africa. Gberie leaps to conclusions with the following statement: Lebanese involvement with the RUF [Sierra Leone’s guerilla movement Revolutionary United Front] is also largely anecdotal, but in both cases the stories are supported by generations of shady business practice, and by the strong interest of some Lebanese in the virulent politics of the Middle East (2002:16). Nevertheless, the Middle East Intelligence Bulletin (2004) acknowledges that although al-Qaeda and Hezbollah are usually mentioned in the same breath when terrorist links to the diamond trade are discussed, the two organizations have been involved in very different capacities. Whereas Senegal is not cited in the reports about diamonds, Levitt (2004) does suggest, citing Israeli intelligence reports, that Senegal is the secondary centre for Hizbullah’s fundraising activity in Africa after Ivory Coast. On June 11, 2013, the U.S. Treasury blacklisted four Lebanese Shiʿa in West Africa, including a restaurant owner in Dakar, for allegedly fundraising for Hizbullah.²

Despite the focus of these journalists and policy analysts on Hizbullah’s influence in Africa, many scholars of Islam in Senegal and Senegalese religious leaders had little, if any, knowledge of the existence of Shiʿi Islam in Dakar. When I described my project to them, responses ranged from denial, to disbelief, to confusing a reformist Sunni movement with Shiʿi Islam. A Senegalese graduate student, upon hearing me present my research on Senegalese converts to Shiʿi Islam, questioned why I would research a community that was obviously so insignificant he had never heard of them. How could Western journalists and government officials be so sure these terrorists existed when Senegalese scholars were equally certain they did not?

This study documents the beginnings of a Shiʿi movement in Senegal. It does not uncover additional terrorist networks in Africa, reveal the money trail from Senegal to Lebanon, or disclose Hizbullah’s West African headquarters, real or imaginary. My focus is not on Shiʿi Islam as a fundamentalist Islam, but on Shiʿi Islam as a religious identity and way of being. Religion is part of Lebanese and Senegalese lives, and is crucial in the formation of subjects within the national Senegalese state and transnational Muslim community, yet it is not a static force. Both local and global influences help shape religious identities: French colonialism, Senegalese politics of Africanization, the Lebanese Civil War, the Iranian Revolution, and the 2006 Lebanon War, to name only a few historical events. Lebanese and Senegalese are torn between North and South and between Islam and the West (Gellar 1982), all the while struggling to create their own Arab and/or African identity. Is Islam religious or political? Can Islam be Westernized, Arabized, or Africanized? Must one choose among these influences, or can one live a cosmopolitan life betwixt and between these different worlds? Are these worlds, indeed, so very different? This book provides an account of the everyday lives of the predominantly Shiʿi Lebanese community in Senegal, focusing on their changing religious, ethnic, and national identities. These subjectivities are placed in the context of the politics of globalization and cosmopolitanism, postcolonialism in Africa, and conflict in the Middle East.

Senegal’s Lebanese community is only one part of the story of Shiʿi cosmopolitanism in West Africa. Levitt (2004) writes (citing Israeli intelligence reports) that ‘in recent years, many foreign students, including from Uganda and other African countries, are sent to study theology in Iranian universities’ as a means of recruiting and training them as Hizbullah operatives or Iranian intelligence agents. Over the past few decades, Senegalese have begun to convert from Sunni to Shiʿi Islam, but this book demonstrates that their Shiʿi identity is linked to an intellectual and textual tradition of an authentic Islam, not to nationalist politics in the Middle East, although they respect Ayatollah Khomeini’s ideologies. Shiʿi Islam for Senegalese converts is therefore adaptable to a distinctly Senegalese understanding and is a means to bypass the authority and power of Sufi leaders and create their own agency and following. Becoming Shiʿa is also one way certain Senegalese, especially those who are highly educated and relatively affluent, attempt to escape the colonial legacy, the failure of the Senegalese state, and growing structural inequalities in their country through adopting while adapting a religious model that for them has been successful elsewhere in combating the West. The book thus explores the process of becoming Shiʿa in Senegal in the context of tensions between local and global Islamic forces. It is an investigation of two very different communities who share a common minority religious interpretation of Islam in a predominantly Sunni Muslim country: Lebanese migrants and Senegalese converts.

Acknowledgments

I WOULD LIKE TO begin with a special note of appreciation for Shaykh ʿAbdul Munʿam al-Zayn, who allowed me full access at Dakar’s Lebanese Islamic Institute and engaged me in numerous discussions about religion in both Senegal and Lebanon. Coming to a determination to work with an American Jewish anthropologist after 9/11 and during the buildup to the 2003 U.S.-led invasion of Iraq is not a decision every shaykh would make. I struggled greatly with how to treat the inevitable religion question. During my initial stay in Senegal during the summer of 2000, I would respond when asked my religion that I was not religious. This was interpreted to mean that I was atheist and therefore did not believe in anything, an unacceptable phenomenon in Senegal (as well as in Lebanon). After a number of shocked and outwardly disapproving reactions from pious Lebanese, who informed me that no good Muslim or Christian would ever welcome an atheist into their homes, I decided that it was better to openly address my Jewish heritage.

Therefore during Ramadan 2002, when a woman approached me in Shaykh al-Zayn’s mosque during the Friday afternoon prayer, I informed her that I was American and Jewish in response to her prodding. This displeased the shaykh, who remarked that it only takes the talk of one woman for the entire community to know. Word quickly spread around Shaykh al-Zayn’s congregation that an American Jewish spy was in his audience. Although he responded to dozens of phone calls by explaining that he was aware of my presence and that I was (then) a student, the community informed him that he could not be sure that I was not a spy. He advised me to stop going to mosque for my safety. Reluctantly I obeyed.

One week later I had another meeting with the shaykh. He now told me that he was receiving phone calls asking where the American had gone and whether he forbade her from attending his lectures. He recounted a parable of Juha, the Arab fool. Juha and his father were riding a donkey, but Juha begins to feel sorry for the donkey for having too heavy a load, so he tells his father to step down. People watched Juha riding while his elderly father walked and criticized him, so he, too, gets off the donkey and walks next to his father, leaving the fortunate ass with no load at all. The moral of the story is no matter what you do, ride or walk, be present at lectures or absent, people will talk. I self-consciously resumed my attendance of the Islamic Institute lectures for the remainder of Ramadan.

My own liminal position and the multiple registers of language, religion, and culture through which I conducted participant observation enabled the uniqueness of my reflections on this transcultural project. My identity as an American, Jew, and woman was always in the back of Lebanese and Senegalese minds, and while some never ceased to be suspicious, especially in light of world events, with time and persistence I won enough trust to carry out my research. Occasionally, interest in learning more about my religion led to a detailed comparison of Judaism and Islam, which I found to be beneficial. I was always an anomaly in the community, but I eventually became an accepted anomaly.

This project spanned thirteen years and four continents. Research was made possible by awards from the Andrew Mellon Foundation (2000 and 2001, administered by Brown University), Fulbright Program, Population Council, and National Science Foundation (2002–2003). Additional research in Senegal (2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2013) and leave from teaching at Michigan State University were facilitated by MSU’s Intramural Research Grants Program, Muslim Studies Program, Center for Advanced Study of International Development, African Studies Center, and Department of Anthropology. A National Institute of Child Health and Human Development fellowship through Brown’s Population Studies and Training Center funded my graduate training. The University of Michigan and the Center for Middle East and North African Studies served as an excellent base from which to write (2004–2005). I was a visiting fellow at Zentrum Moderner Orient, Berlin (2007), and the (former) International Institute for the Study of Islam in the Modern World, Leiden (2008).

I am greatly indebted to the many people who assisted and supported me along the way, including my teachers David Kertzer, Bill Beeman, Phil Leis, Calvin Goldscheider, and Mamadou Diouf. Calvin and Mamadou read more drafts than anybody else and were instrumental in helping me shape ideas. At Brown I was grateful for the support of Jan Brunson, Pilapa Esara, Lacey Gale, Susi Keefe, Audrey Mouser, Simone Poliandri, Isabel Rodrigues, Dan Smith, and Bruce White-house. Colleagues at MSU advised me on the writing process. In particular I wish to thank Beth Drexler, Kiki Edozie, Emine Evered, Anne Ferguson, Steve Gold, Walter Hawthorne, Leslie Moch, James Pritchett, and Karin Zitzewitz. Andrea Louie and Jyotsna Singh critiqued drafts of my introduction.

Research in Senegal depended on the assistance, friendship, and hospitality of too many to thank by name; I also wish to respect their privacy and anonymity. The Lebanese community welcomed me at events, invited me for meals, and partook in many conversations. Samir’s dedication to my research was essential. The Attye and Sarraf families opened their homes to me. Father Tony Fakhry often received me at Dakar’s Maronite Mission. Senegalese Shiʿa invited me into their community and enthusiastically shared their religious experiences. At Université Cheikh Anta Diop, Ibrahima Thioub shared his own research on the Lebanese of Senegal and lent me Boumedouha’s dissertation, which I had been chasing for years. Babacar Samb spent hours with me contemplating Islam. I am indebted to Diegane Sene, then of CESTI, for aiding me in my newspaper search and allowing me to photocopy the many French colonial archival documents he collected on Lebanese in Senegal. Sidy Lamine Niass of Wal Fadjri and Babacar Niang, now of Al-Madina, led me to Senegalese Shiʿa and dubbed cassettes of Islamic radio programs. Cheikh Diop of IFAN searched for articles in Senegalese newspapers on Shiʿi Islam and the Lebanese community. Charles Becker shared demographic sources from his impressive personal library. The American Cultural Center assisted with contacts and bureaucracy.

The German Orient Institute was an ideal base in Beirut the summer of 2000. Anja Peleikis connected me with many acquaintances in Lebanon. Abir Bassam and Ali Badawi occasionally served as guides and translators. Souha Tarraf-Najib shared her research on the history of Senegal’s Lebanese community. Many other scholars, journalists, government officials, religious leaders, and NGO workers helped formulate my impressions of Lebanon’s relationship with its emigrant communities in Africa.

In Paris, Sabrina Mervin meticulously sharpened my knowledge about Lebanese Shiʿa. Jean Schmitz included me in his scholarly community of Africanists and eased my access to Paris’s libraries. Fabienne Samson-Ndaw invited me to join a research group at the Centre d’Etudes Africaines at EHESS. Abu Sahra generously hosted me and engaged in dialogue about Islam on many occasions. At Oxford, Nadim Shehadi allowed me access to the unpublished dissertations housed at the Centre for Lebanese Studies. I compared Lebanese communities in Anglophone and Francophone Africa with Xerxes Malki. I am grateful to the Imam al-Khuʾi Foundation in London and Paris for furthering my understanding of Shiʿi Islam.

Birama Diagne, Mohamad Cama, and Patricia Pereiro transcribed French-language cassettes. Noémi Tousignant and Meadow Dibble-Dieng translated quotations from French into English. Doaa Darwish and Ebraima K. M. Saidy transcribed and translated Arabic cassettes. Assan Sarr translated Wolof recordings. Cengiz Salman conducted a literature review. Adrianne Daggett created the maps used in this book. I am grateful to Paul Silverstein for soliciting my work for the Public Cultures of the Middle East and North Africa series. The careful read and critique of my manuscript by Robert Launay and one anonymous reviewer helped me improve this book. Rebecca Tolen and her staff at Indiana University Press guided the manuscript through the review and editing process. All remaining errors are my own. All photographs were taken by the author unless otherwise noted in the captions.

Portions of this book are revisions of and elaborations on previously published work. An earlier version of chapter 3 appeared in Frances Trix, John Walbridge, and Linda Walbridge’s edited volume Muslim Voices and Lives in the Contemporary World (Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). An earlier version of chapter 4 was published in International Journal of Middle East Studies 42 (2): 269–290, 2010. A portion of chapter 6 appeared in Journal of Religion in Africa 39 (3): 319–351, 2009. Some of the material in chapter 7 appeared in Mamadou Diouf and Mara A. Leichtman, editors, New Perspectives on Islam in Senegal: Conversion, Migration, Wealth, Power, and Femininity (Palgrave Macmillan, 2009).

Note on Transliteration

THROUGHOUT THE BOOK I use a simplified version of the International Journal of Middle East Studies guidelines for the transliteration of Arabic words. All diacritical marks have been omitted, except the ayn (ʿ) and glottal stop hamza (ʾ). At times I use the broken Arabic plural (e.g., marajiʿ); however, for additional simplicity, I add the English s to indicate plurals of more familiar Arabic words (e.g., fatwas). When using direct quotes, I preserve the transliteration used in the original text; as a result certain words appear in multiple spellings. Names and places are transcribed according to their most common English or French spelling (e.g., Beirut not Bayrut; Diourbel not Jurbel).

SHIʿI COSMOPOLITANISMS IN AFRICA

Introduction

Locating Cosmopolitan Shiʿi Islamic Movements in Senegal

DAKAR IS LOCATED on the Atlantic coast at the westernmost edge of the African mainland, a strategic position and major port for transatlantic and European trade, including the export of slaves from the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries. Recognized as a French commune in 1872, and replacing Saint-Louis as the capital of French West Africa in 1902, Dakar was accessible by both sea and land, linked to Bamako by a major railroad. Racial and social segregation marked the process of urbanization during the colonial period. Today the cosmopolitan city retains its position as a West African financial center and migrant destination—as well as a port of (increasingly clandestine) departure in this neoliberal age of economic crisis.

Travelers to Dakar, and to other West African cities, encounter a very visible and established minority trading community. Lebanese migrants were ghettoized by French colonial officers in a particular central section of Dakar Plateau. This combined business and residential quarter is covered in dust, blown south from the Sahara desert, mixed with trash, empty boxes, discarded containers, and swarming with flies. Streets are a buzz of activity, crowded with cars and trucks, motorcycles, merchandise carts, people shopping, selling items, yelling, spitting, coughing, greeting. In the shops one often encounters a Lebanese proprietor, with a few Lebanese employees or coworkers, often family members, while the majority of the employees are Senegalese (sometimes Guineans or métis). A cacophony of languages can be heard: Wolof, Pular, French, Arabic.

The Lebanese businessmen are savvy, and shop names are intentionally evocative to attract customers, such as Bed Bath and Beyond (of no affiliation with the trademarked American chain) and Al Pacino’s Dream Shop (which sells African cloth). One man gave me a midnight tour of the plastics factory he managed, one of five in Dakar, all Lebanese-owned and engaged in fierce competition for the West African market. Senegalese workers operating expensive machinery from Europe manned the twenty-four-hour factory. Our tour began with barrels of colored plastic beads, melted and pressed into molds. Most important, however, was the labeling process at the end of the production cycle, which marked products as Made in the USA and even Made in Harlem! (The neighborhood known as Little Senegal in Harlem is home to the largest Senegalese population in the United States [Abdullah 2010; Kane 2011; Stoller 2002].) Finished products ranged from chairs and tables, to buckets, basins, and bowls, to smaller cosmetics cases. The plastics factory worked together with the Lebanese-run cosmetics factory to package their products. The manager told me that his wife once bought an inexpensive face powder and marveled at the low price she paid for an American product. When he verified that her purchase was produced in his factory, his wife was furious that even she had been deceived by such marketing ploys.

Once populated almost exclusively by Lebanese, this business district is becoming more mixed with Senegalese merchants, who are edging out Lebanese competition in an increasingly brutal economic climate. Some Lebanese were forced to shift to other business sectors; others even relocated to more affordable and remote areas of Dakar. Known as baol-baol, many Murid Sufis are rural-to-urban migrants, coming from the Baol region in Senegal, and dominating Dakar’s informal economy. Setting up shop on the street in front of their Lebanese competitors enables them to undercut Lebanese business by selling the same product at a fraction of the price without overhead costs. I was once walking through the bustling Sandaga market and was accosted by one of these hawkers who begged me to buy from him and not from the Lebanese.

On Friday afternoons the marketplace is transformed by the call to prayer broadcasting from the loudspeakers of nearby minarets. Lebanese shops are either closed or staffed temporarily by female relatives as male shopkeepers head to the Lebanese Shiʿi mosque for the communal prayer. Some Senegalese Muslims join the Lebanese in prayer, as crowds of Senegalese Sufi merchants convert city streets into sanctified spaces, prostrating publicly on squares of cardboard or burlap sacks. The soothing sounds of Islam mysteriously replace the honking horns from frequently congested traffic, streets empty of cars; even the usually aggressive taxi drivers, desperate for passengers they can overcharge, are nowhere to be found. The intense economic rivalry in Dakar dissipates into religious coexistence and at times even collaboration as Muslims. Just as cosmopolitanism is the key to economic success in Senegal, it is also an important factor in religious transitions over time, for Lebanese as well as indigenous Senegalese Muslims. It is this sacred space, very much in constant interaction with the profane—the economic as well as the political—that this book explores.

What is at stake for religion in an increasingly globalized world unchained yet bounded by processes of migration, cosmopolitanism, and governmentality? To answer this question, I focus on religious ties between Senegalese, Lebanese in Senegal, and Lebanon, within a larger context of French colonialism and global Shiʿi Islam, referring to the religio-political fervor originating in Iran that spread to Shiʿi Muslims around the world. I am less interested in the cosmopolitanism of the individual migrant/traveler and more in religion as a global movement. Research using the now dominant frameworks of globalization, transnationalism, multiculturalism, and cosmopolitanism has often neglected to incorporate religion, or religion has been sidestepped, reduced to either totalitarian orthodoxies or false consciousness (although fine exceptions do exist). The following chapters illustrate diverse forms of cosmopolitanism as envisaged and practiced by two Shiʿi Muslim minorities—one diasporic, the other indigenous—in a Sunni Muslim–majority country. My discussion explores the interrelationship among theories of cosmopolitanism, migration, and religious transformation, while paying attention to intricacies of these theories in colonial, as well as postcolonial and neoliberal, Africa.

I begin with an examination of how Lebanese identity adapted over time from religious sectarianism to secular ethnicity, when religion ceased to divide Muslim and Christian migrants and instead became a shared element of Lebanese diasporic culture. Situating this predominantly Muslim population in its Senegalese context led me in two different directions. First, I examine Lebanese Shiʿa as part of the Lebanese community as a whole, including its Christian minority. Following Simpson and Kresse, who posit that any conception of ‘cosmopolitan society’ . . . ought to reflect the historical struggles on which it builds (2008:2), the first part of this book provides a history of Lebanese settlement in Senegal. Lebanese first adapted to being a minority by emphasizing Lebanese ethnicity over religious denomination. Uniting as an ethnic group helped counter discrimination first under French colonialism and later from the independent Senegalese state. More recently, external constraints have begun to threaten Lebanese coexistence in Senegal as the 2006 Lebanon War revived sectarian divisions. Responses to the war from Dakar were particularly significant because a majority of Lebanese in Senegal had never visited Lebanon. Shiʿi Islam began to stand for Lebanese nationalism, and the shaykh had more success in strengthening the community’s identification as Lebanese than in turning them into pious Shiʿa. This identity change is one variation of Shiʿi cosmopolitanism, as Shiʿi Islam for Lebanese in Senegal links religious observance to ethno-national belonging.

Second, I explore Lebanese interactions with Senegalese Muslims, specifically Senegalese who converted to Shiʿi Islam over the past few decades, who are cosmopolitan in different ways than the Lebanese. In contrast to many Lebanese, who are multilingual in French, Wolof, and Lebanese Arabic, yet mostly illiterate in classical Arabic, Senegalese Shiʿi leaders are fluent in Arabic, and many have university degrees from the Middle East. Senegal’s Shiʿa choose their persuasion due to social connections with other Arabisants and cite intellectual reasons, finding that Shiʿi religious literature convincingly answers their questions about Islam. Arabic enables them to access Shiʿi religious texts, interact with other Shiʿa, and be part of a global Islamic movement. Shiʿi Islam makes it possible for converts to escape the local power of Senegal’s Sufi leaders by creating an alternative Islamic network. They spread knowledge about Shiʿi Islam in Wolof or other local languages, first to friends and family, and ultimately to a larger population through teaching, conferences, holiday celebrations, and media publicity.

Whereas Lebanese of different denominations came together in Senegal as one ethnic group, religion trumped African ethnicity for Senegalese converts. Members of Senegal’s myriad ethnic groups and (initially) various Sufi orders collaborated in the common goal of propagating their new faith. While inscribing their intervention in the local religious imaginary through reworking history and tradition, Senegalese Shiʿa are able to go beyond established ties of Senegal’s Sunni reformist movements with Saudi Arabia and of local Sufi orders with the Senegalese state and (re)negotiate new international linkages with Iran and Lebanon. The result is what I call conversion to push theories of religious change to a new level as Senegalese simultaneously search for their place both outside and inside their traditions.

Even though Senegalese converts share Shiʿi Islam with Lebanese coreligionists, the two populations remain almost entirely apart. They do not regularly socialize, and Senegalese converts envision themselves as more intellectually Shiʿa than Lebanese businessmen. Lebanese Shaykh al-Zayn, who established Dakar’s Islamic Social Institute in 1978, is a central figure in both communities. He is not the only Shiʿi influence; the spread of the 1979 Iranian Revolution to West Africa also led to heightened religio-political identity. Some Senegalese converts were brought to Shiʿi Islam through their relationships with Lebanese, and some pray regularly at the Lebanese Islamic Institute and are employed by Shaykh al-Zayn to manage daily affairs, lead religious services, and teach Arabic. Certain Lebanese are also present at Senegalese Shiʿi events. Examining these groups together enables an evaluation of the development of a global Shiʿi Islam that affects local communities in diverse ways.

Becoming a citizen of the world through travel, migration, business contacts, homeland politics, religious networks, conversion, and education impacts national culture and nationalism. Whereas Lebanon remains the ideological homeland of Lebanese Shiʿa, Senegalese converts create a distinctly Senegalese Shiʿism. For them, as Shiʿi Islam travels to Africa it loses the (often political) spirit that exemplifies religion in countries of origin: Iran’s revolutionary undertones or Lebanon’s resistance forces. These processes provide new evidence for reformulating theories of cosmopolitanism to correspond with the complex relationship between religion, migration, conversion, and ethnicity/nationalism. Thus Shiʿi rituals—and the global and local allegiances inherent in their performances—have distinct meanings for Lebanese migrants and Senegalese converts.

In bringing together these two case studies through an analysis of the intersection of multiple sites of local and global Islam (French colonialism, Lebanese migration, Iranian revolution, Senegalese conversion) this book challenges the notion that Islam is counter-cosmopolitan. First developed by Appiah (2006), this argument has been taken up by other scholars—particularly political scientists such as Held (2010) in the post-9/11 context—and critiqued by anthropologists and Islamic studies scholars. Lebanese migrants and Senegalese converts strategically mold cosmopolitan ethics in ways that enable each minority community to assert political autochthony. Religion, for Lebanese, becomes secularized in an inclusive ethno-national identity that, despite increasing sectarian tensions, unites Muslims and Christians as Afro-Lebanese. In contrast, Shiʿi Islam brings members of Senegalese ethnic groups together in an alternative network that preaches religious reform with an aim of overcoming the state’s economic failures. Religion thus provides a universalizing and differentiating identity that supersedes previous colonial categories of race and ethnicity. Lebanese migrants and Senegalese converts transform the conceptual framework of Shiʿi Islam into a humanitarian and thus (locally) universal one from which everyone can benefit. Through education, health care, economic development, working for peace in rebel separatist territories, and assisting during national tragedies, Shiʿi Islam is deradicalized and familiarized as it caters to the African (and sometimes Lebanese) public good. This humanism is also reinforced by the universalist language of Shaykh al-Zayn and Senegalese Shiʿi leaders knowing when to emphasize Shiʿi Islam as an all-inclusive (not foreign minority branch of) Islam.

In highlighting the dynamic and heterogeneous nature of contemporary identifications, I examine Muslim cosmopolitanism as articulated through engagement with history, colonialism, the state, political-economy, global Islamic movements, and the imagination of nations. I understand cosmopolitanism to be a heuristic concept and contested category of practice, a disposition or form of experience that refers to a variety of imagination, a specific cultural and social condition that allows Muslims to inhabit the contemporary world, and a future possibility grounded in present-day realities (Leichtman and Schulz 2012). I argue for the centrality of religious traditions and networks to projects of cosmopolitanism, and probe the secular post-Enlightenment and elitist bias inherent in much of the cosmopolitan literature. I envision Muslim cosmopolitanism to be at once universalist in identifying (to some extent) with the global Islamic umma (Muslim community-at-large) and rooted in particular local histories. Although this book focuses primarily on Shiʿi Muslim cosmopolitanism, I also examine other models of cosmopolitanism: French colonial cosmopolitanism and the cosmopolitan political ideologies of Lebanese Michel Chiha, Senegalese Leopold Sedar Senghor, and Iranian Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini—all of whom in different ways reconfigured a universalism that was a function of European/Christian, Arab, African, or Islamic particularities.

On Transnationalism and Cosmopolitanism

My previous scholarship examined Lebanese migrants (Leichtman 2005; Leichtman 2010; Leichtman 2013) and Senegalese converts (Leichtman 2009) in a transnational framework. But as I previously argued, the transnationalism approach has its limitations (Leichtman 2005). Many studies have a geographical bias, examining immigrants in North America and Europe without comparison to other world regions, and ignore the impact of colonialism. I argued that transnationalism could not be limited only to sending and receiving countries. Relationships between migrant, home country, host country, and tertiary countries are key factors in the creation of transnational community and are especially important in examining transnational ties among South–South migrants. I also suggested that definitions of transnationalism for second and later generations must be modified. Movement between home and host country and economic and political embeddedness are no longer central criteria. Instead, ethnic groups maintain transnational characteristics through self-identification and definition by others, imagining the motherland, and upholding political and religious ideologies. In order to more effectively bring together case studies of Lebanese migrants and Senegalese converts as examples of vernacularization of global Shiʿi Islamic movements in Dakar, I ground my analysis instead in the literature on cosmopolitanism.

While also a problematic concept, cosmopolitanism, as I envision it, makes possible a move beyond political boundaries of geographic borders inherent in notions of transnationalism. I draw from the literature I find most relevant to the African context.¹ Vertovec and Cohen define cosmopolitanism as something that simultaneously: (a) transcends the seemingly exhausted nation-state model; (b) is able to mediate actions and ideals oriented both to the universal and the particular, the global and the local; (c) is culturally anti-essentialist; and (d) is capable of representing variously complex repertoires of allegiance, identity and interest (2003:4). Cosmopolitanism—as anthropologists have emphasized and on which I draw—remains grounded in the local. Beck argues that "what is distinctive about cosmopolitanization is that it is internal and it is internalized from within national societies or local cultures (2006:72–73). Similarly Werbner insists that for anthropologists, cosmopolitanism is as much a local engagement within postcolonial states—with cultural pluralism, global rights movements, ideas about democracy and the right to dissent—as beyond their borders" (2008:4–5). In these notions of cosmopolitanism the global remains important, but the focus shifts to local contexts that are concurrently shaped by while also influencing the global.

The struggle for survival in postcolonial and neoliberal Senegal during economic and political crises puts pressure on local communities to expand their networks in creative ways. This book outlines the varied approaches of Lebanese and Senegalese Shiʿa, two distinct communities as envisioned by the Senegalese state. The moral and ethical foundations of the cosmopolitan outlook provide a framework for understanding both Shiʿi minority communities, whereas transnationalism is best applied to studies of migrant communities and not to indigenous populations who do not necessarily move across borders. Cosmopolitanism simultaneously transcends as it is defined by the political. This book will illustrate the relationship between cosmopolitanism, Islam, and politics, stressing the agency between, and the political structure of, state and society in Senegal. Faisal Devji’s The Terrorist in Search of Humanity, however polemic, provides an intriguing model for establishing the ethics of Muslim cosmopolitanism.

Devji examines Osama bin Laden and al-Qaʾida as an example of militancy’s endeavor to found a global politics outside of inherited forms and institutions. As al-Qaʾida outgrew (or could not be confined by) established traditional politics, global media did not simply represent or even influence politics but actually took its place (2008:3). Devji provocatively suggests that al-Qaʾida has abandoned the nation state and with it Islamic law as a model, claiming territory only in the abstract terms of a global caliphate (4). In this way he maintains that local forms of Islamic militancy are increasingly mediated by global conditions—not the other way around. Politics governing citizens of nation-states are replaced with an ethical form of Muslims as human beings and contemporary representatives of human suffering (7)—no different, Devji declares, from other NGOs dedicated to humanitarian work. Human rights and humanitarianism provide militants with terms by which to imagine global Muslim politics of the future.

My goal is to historicize the conflict between ethics and politics in the context of Shiʿi Islamic movements. Following Devji’s analysis, the earlier 1979 Iranian Revolution and 2006 Lebanon War can be compared to al-Qaʾida, not in terms of particular Islamist agendas, but in attempts at universalism and global dissemination to other Muslim contexts. As Khomeini’s ideologies traveled, the revolution’s violence and distinctly Iranian political message likewise transformed into Muslim pride and Islamic humanitarianism. Lebanese Shaykh ʿAbdul Munʿam al-Zayn founded West Africa’s first Lebanese and Shiʿi Islamic institute precisely at the time of Iran’s revolution (chapter 3). The revolution’s legacy continued to live on as